


The Consequences of Hatred

by Taliya



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Blood and Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Mental Health Issues, Racism, Racist Language, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 15:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taliya/pseuds/Taliya
Summary: He did not understand.  He did not understand at all.  A confused mix of guilt and fury and sadness welled up inside him as he clenched his teeth, forcing himself to think past his emotion.  But it was difficult—so horribly difficult—especially as he watched the occupied gurney being wheeled off and loaded into the back of the ambulance.  Rated for violence, racism, and language.





	The Consequences of Hatred

**Author's Note:**

> _Detective Conan_ and _Magic Kaito_ characters, settings, and ideas do not belong to me but to Aoyama Gōshō.
> 
> \---
> 
> Warnings: Graphic violence and gore, extremist ideology, racial slurs, suicidal ideation, language
> 
> Additional Warning: This work touches on a lot of highly sensitive topics: mass killings, gun control, mental illness, discrimination, suicide; I want to state for the record that the ideas and opinions written here do not necessarily reflect my own personal beliefs—they were written with Shinichi’s point of view in mind.

_This work is dedicated to the victims of hate crimes all across the globe, and to their surviving families, friends, and loved ones._

\---

Kudou Shinichi stretched, working out the kinks in his back as his thirty-year-old joints popped in relief. The fourteen-hour flight from Tokyo to New York was not one he enjoyed. Deplaning was an exercise in patience as he and his wife Ran patiently waited for their row to exit. Shinichi grabbed the one carry-on they brought, toting it behind him as they entered the airport proper and headed towards baggage claim. A quick pitstop at the restrooms, and then they were on their way to pick up their checked luggage.

Though the couple had opted to fly coach, they had sat near the front of the coach section of the plane’s cabin. Ran had decided that first class—or even business class—was not worth the cost. Regardless, the TMPD detective had heard something going on near the back of the cabin. Something entertaining, judging by the frequent bouts of laughter. Curiosity had nagged at him, but as this was a much-needed vacation and he was exhausted from a three-day bender chasing after a serial killer, he had opted to sleep for most of the flight to America.

The pair came to a halt before their assigned baggage carousel, Shinichi handing over a bottle of now lukewarm water to Ran at her request. As they stood, his eyes roved over the people that both clustered around the carousel and that briskly walked towards their destinations. One person in particular caught his eye, and he discretely studied him with a raised brow of surprise.

_My, my,_ he thought, _I didn’t expect to see you here._

Kuroba Kaito stood opposite him on the far side of the carousel, chatting with his wife, Aoko, as they waited for their checked baggage. Shinichi watched as Kuroba said a joke of some sort and then flinched as Ran’s lookalike swatted him on the arm with a fond but exasperated glare. It was a scene that likely had played out multiple times before, given the magician’s wide grin, and Shinichi gently smiled at the pair.

_It’s good to see you healthy and whole, Kaitou KID._

Phantom Thief 1412, known colloquially in Japan as Kaitou KID, had disappeared well over six years ago—and had never returned the last gem that he had stolen. Shinichi had long suspected that the thief had been after a specific gem, though he had never managed to deduce what qualities KID had sought in the precious stones. It was likely a safe assumption that the last gem had been what the thief had spent years searching for.

The detective had had mixed feelings when KID had announced his retirement via a single note that had been splashed across the front page of the newspapers and covered extensively on all of the major news outlets. Though he had managed over the years to uncover the thief’s civilian identity, he had not made a move to arrest him, or to even approach him out of a probably misguided sense of fair play.

KID had been innocuous in the grand scheme of things, a harmless philanderer and a source of both awe for his fans and annoyance for the police. He was but a minor point of focus to Shinichi when compared to the homicide cases that he worked on a daily basis. As long as it was objects and not lives being stolen, Shinichi could live with letting the thief run free.

A loud buzzer and a flashing yellow light pulled everyone’s attention towards the now moving conveyor belt, and the first of a multitude of suitcases shuffled down the chute from the ceiling before sliding onto the carousel. People jostled each other to grab their bags, and Shinichi lightly eased Ran out of the tight press of bodies before diving in himself to grab Ran’s suitcase.

One moment it was a normal day.

The next it was a nightmare come to life.

The thunderous rapport of gunfire shattered the chatter of all the travelers, and utter pandemonium erupted as people screamed and ran in panic. Over the shouts of terrified people came the words in English, “GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY COUNTRY YOU FUCKIN’ JAPS! SHOULDA DUMPED ALL THE FUCKIN’ BOMBS ON YOU!”

Shinichi had instinctively ducked for cover behind the baggage carousel, taking a quick glance to see what had happened to Ran. His wife, brilliant woman that she was, had flattened herself on the ground and was slowly crawling her way towards additional cover. She flashed him a shaky grin, and despite the rather dire situation they were in, Shinichi could not help but feel a swell of pride in his chest at seeing how the love of his life was handling this crisis situation.

Returning his attention to the situation at hand, Shinichi took stock of who his enemies were. It was a single man of medium build and of Northern European descent, what with his blond hair and blue eyes. He wielded an M16, and really was not aiming at any one group in particular—rather, he was spraying bullets everywhere, and it was enough to keep security from approaching too close. The smattering of security guards stationed in the baggage claim area were also behind cover and were returning fire with limited success.

Shinichi searched for something he could use to knock the guy out. Purses and backpacks were out due to the unknown weight distribution of the items, and he pursed his lips in frustration.

“Shinichi!” Ran hissed, and he turned just in time to catch an object flying for his head. He snatched it midair and blinked upon finding his ball dispensing belt in his hand. He glanced questioningly at Ran, and she merely pointed to her partially unzipped checked bag.

With a grim nod of thanks, the detective mimed making a phone call to his wife before he turned to watch the shooter once more. He had to time it right so that he would not get caught by the rain of bullets. As the blond man’s arm—and aim—swept over his head, Shinichi sprung to his feet, fingers already releasing a ball onto the bottom lip of the carousel.

“HEY, STUPID!” he snarled in accented English, foot swinging back before slamming into the spherical object. The blond man snapped his head towards the additional sound just in time to get a soccer ball directly in the face. The shooter spun on his heel from the force of Shinichi’s kick, the M16 flying out of his hands to clatter on the floor next to the now unconscious blond.

Shinichi grinned triumphantly before sweeping his gaze around to check the damage. Throughout the baggage claim area there were people pushing themselves to their feet. It pained him to see several still lying on the ground with growing pools of red around them, with the people nearest to the victims were doing what they could to staunch the blood coming from their wounds. His gaze swung to where he had last seen the thief, and his stomach dropped out upon seeing the man sprawled on the floor. _KID._

_“KAITO! WAKE UP, KAITO!”_ Aoko screamed as she pressed her red-soaked hands against a wound on his chest. Blood oozed from a straight-lined wound on his forehead, and Shinichi realized that not only had KID taken a bullet from the back, he had also hit his head on the carousel lip as he had fallen. He stumbled over to the unconscious thief, trying to calm the hysterical woman as he eyed the man’s primary injury. The bullet wound on his chest was definitely an exit wound, just under and to the right of his sternum.

_At least it didn’t hit his heart,_ Shinichi thought with frantic relief, though it was not much of a reprieve. The magician likely had several broken ribs and a collapsed right lung, but at least he was still breathing. “We need to roll him onto his right side,” he said, and Aoko turned desperate eyes full of fear at him. “His lung has likely collapsed and if we don’t move him, he will drown in his own blood.”

Ran skidded to a halt at his side, her mouth set in a grim line as she reached out to help her husband. Aoko whimpered as her comatose husband was rolled onto his right side, her blood-stained hands falling lifelessly into her lap. “She’s going into shock,” Ran hissed after sending the other woman a worried glance. Her hands were pressed against the unconscious man’s back, applying pressure to the entry wound while Shinichi pressed the exit wound on the front of his chest.

“Fuck,” Shinichi swore. “Do you know how soon help will be coming?”

“They said fifteen minutes when I called them,” she answered, her voice slightly shaking from stress.

“Damn it.” The detective did not know if KID could hold out for that long, considering how pale he now was from blood loss. “Ran, grab anything out of the suitcase we can use to keep the both of them warm,” he commanded. “I’ll press from both sides.”

His wife nodded and sprinted for her suitcase. Shinichi straddled the unconscious magician and clamped one hand on each side of the wound like a vice, a quiet, insidious terror bubbling up in his stomach as he watched KID struggle to breathe. He clenched his teeth as he pressed his forehead against the man’s bicep, listening to the magician’s gasps as he fervently whispered, “Don’t you _dare_ give up on me now, KID.”

Ran returned with an armload of shirts, some of which she draped all over the other prone woman in an effort to keep her core temperature stable after helping her to lie down on her left side. She did the same with the magician, covering as much of his torso as she could once Shinichi had shifted off of him. She resumed pressing on his back once she was done and eyed her husband.

“Who is he?” she asked, and Shinichi blinked as his eyes flitted from the unconscious man to the love of his life. “Your expression,” she clarified, “You know him, don’t you?”

Shinichi frowned as his gaze dropped back to the thief’s face. “He is Kaitou KID,” he quietly answered, and heard Ran gasp in surprise. “And the woman there—” he gestured to Aoko with a tilt of his head, “—is his wife.”

A look of horror blossomed on Ran’s face, for she knew all too well what the other woman was going through. Shinichi had been injured a number of times on the job, and several times his wounds had come dangerously close to claiming his life. “I hope he makes it,” she murmured with deep sympathy.

The sound of approaching sirens was music to Shinichi’s ears. NYPD riot police poured in through the doors to the outside world, securing the entire area before the paramedics were allowed in. “Here!” he shouted, gaining the attention of one pair of EMTs. They hurried towards him with a stretcher, collapsing the frame so that they could maneuver the magician onto the bedding. With brisk efficiency, they strapped him in and pressed a mask over his face as they raised the stretcher to a height that was easier to push. One of them steered the gurney while the other rhythmically squeezed the bladder attached to the mask, forcing air into KID’s chest. Shinichi remained where he was, kneeling on the ground with his hands liberally coated in blood as his eyes tracked the unconscious thief.

He did not understand. He did not understand at all. A confused mix of guilt and fury and sadness welled up inside him as he clenched his teeth, forcing himself to think past his emotion. But it was difficult—so horribly difficult—especially as he watched the occupied gurney being wheeled off and loaded into the back of the ambulance. 

_Why?_ he thought with frustrated confusion as he recalled the crazed blond man’s words, bloodied hands clenching into fists on his thighs. _Why did you open fire on innocent people? Why do hate people who don’t look like you?_ His thoughts chased themselves in circles, adrenaline causing his mind to run faster than he could actively comprehend.

Racial discrimination was something that Shinichi knew about—had even encountered—in Japan. While most of his people were friendly enough with foreigners, there were still a scattered handful of isolationists who believed that Japan should close its borders to the outside world—to flush out outside influence in order to maintain the cultural norms and expectations that had been in place for hundreds of years. Shinichi most definitely did not agree with this philosophy, for not only did he have friends who were decidedly of non-Japanese descent, but the wealth of knowledge and culture and everything else that made the world so diverse and interesting was something he believed everyone should have access to.

“You okay there?”

Shinichi blinked out of his vacant staring to gaze up at a police officer. He was holding his hand out, silently offering to help the detective up from his current kneeling position. Shinichi grasped the other man’s hand and was pulled to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, the syllables of the foreign language unfamiliar on his tongue. Glancing at KID’s wife, he gestured to her and asked, “Can you help her?”

The officer gazed at the prone woman. “Yeah, we’ll get her some help,” he answered with that distinctive New Yorker accent, then left to flag down any remaining paramedic to attend to the woman.

The detective sighed deeply. He reached up with the intention of pressing the heel of his hand to his eye, but the thick, ferrous tang of KID’s blood stopped him. He stared at the red, sticky liquid that coated his palm and fingers, and felt nauseous.

“Shinichi?”

He snapped his gaze from his hand to meet Ran’s eyes. They were wet with unshed tears and full of sorrow, now that the danger had passed. Glancing at his hand once more before deliberately wiping them off as best he could on one of the discarded shirts that had covered KID, he stepped over to embrace his wife. Ran nestled her head beneath his chin, and he felt the small tremors that shook her frame.

“You’re okay, Ran,” he whispered soothingly to not only reassure her, but to re-center himself as well. “You’re okay. _We’re_ okay.”

“He looked so much like you,” she breathed, “that for a moment all I could see _was_ you on the floor.”

Shinichi could only hold her tighter in reply.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted, and the pair glanced up to find a paramedic standing nearby, politely asking to check them over.

\---

The sterile scent of hospitals was something that Shinichi would never get used to. After giving their statements to the police and being given the all clear to leave the airport by the paramedics, the couple had inquired about the whereabouts of one Kuroba Kaito—why yes, they were friends… of a sort.

So here they were, sitting in the waiting room alongside Kuroba Aoko, who Shinichi now knew was a journalist working for _An An_. KID’s mother and Aoko’s father had been contacted, and the both of them were currently on their way to New York City. Aoko was currently nestled against Ran, sleeping due to sheer exhaustion. Ran had an arm around the other woman and was lightly dozing after having rooted around Shinichi’s checked luggage for a jacket to drape over the both of them as a makeshift blanket. The two of them had become fast friends during the time they had both still been awake, what with Ran’s nurturing nature giving Aoko a grounding source and the sensation of safety that she was likely sorely missing at this point in time.

Shinichi gazed at his wife with unabashed adoration. His Ran truly was one-of-a-kind, and he was so very lucky to have her in his life. He switched his attention from his wife to the sign above the double doors they were waiting across from. The sign was backlit and read, “Surgery in progress”. The double doors themselves had a sign each that proclaimed, “Notice: Do not disturb while surgery is in progress”. Shinichi had no desire to stroll into the operating room to interrupt a procedure that might save KID’s life.

His right leg bounced rapidly, belying his calm—if exhausted—appearance while he waited on tenterhooks, and as he stared distantly at the eggshell-white wall his thoughts chased themselves in circles. Shinichi had read about the spate of mass killings happening in America within the past couple of years, how some of them had been committed by individuals motivated by hatred of varying sources: race, sexuality, bullying. Hatred strong enough to motivate a person to kill was something the detective would never understand, though he reasoned the echo chambers provided by the internet was an unfortunately efficient means of shoving a person down the road with the end goal of murder.

The incidents in El Paso, Texas, and Dayton, Ohio came to mind, as they were the most recent events that, unfortunately, happened back-to-back in the same weekend. One motivated by hatred of immigrants, one with a motivation still unidentified. The Pittsburg, Pennsylvania shooting at the Jewish synagogue, the Las Vegas, Nevada concert, the Orlando, Florida nightclub…

_Why?_ he thought, wetness blurring his vision, _What pushed you to the point that killing was your only option? What were you trying to prove, even if mental illness was part of the cause?_

Shinichi, in all his years as a homicide detective, had never once ruled out the possibility of mental illness as motivation, though most of his suspects seemed of sound mind during their investigations. He had, twice, come across sociopaths who acted completely sane but for some odd, niggling sense that there was just something _off_ about them.

But even if the perpetrator suffered from mental illness, Shinichi knew full well that many people suffered from mental illness and yet had no desire to resort to killing others. The detective actually had tremendous respect for mental illness sufferers, for they had to deal with wounds that were not clearly visible to the eye and much more difficult to treat—much less cure. He himself had gone through several severe bouts of depression after the Organization had fallen and he had been restored to his rightful age.

Those periods of time—and the seemingly endless days of rock-bottom lows and overwhelming apathy and complete lack of self-worth—were something he would _never_ wish on anyone. It had taken him years of therapy to work himself out of it, and to this day there were times when it would creep back and wrap, silent and deadly, around his throat to choke him despite still being on medication. There were times—even now, though the desire for it had weakened significantly—when the idea of dying did not sound like such a bad idea. His intolerance for suicide, however, rendered him unable to ever follow through with that urge, for he had seen and experienced the grief of losing someone close secondhand—and he had no desire to foist that on his loved ones.

Murder-suicide. It was what a good number of the perpetrators of America’s mass shootings had done. _Take yourself out and as many as you can with you… ultimately for shits and giggles, I suppose? _Shinichi snorted softly, darkly amused at where his thoughts had led him before he sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. _Perhaps I need to schedule an appointment with my psychiatrist when I get back home._

The image of the gunner in the airport flashed past his mind’s eye once more, and thinking on it, Shinichi could sense the rage contained within that man. Rage that had stemmed from fear. Fear that had led him to purchasing a gun, and then mowing people down like a lawnmower on grass. Further recollection concluded that the man had not been in the military—his build did not indicate years of physical training as he had leaned on the thin side—and his eyes were not the eyes of someone who had killed. Shinichi _knew_, because some of his fellow coworkers in the police department had those kinds of eyes, though more by accident than intent.

That man had been no killer prior to that act of violence. If Shinichi was to hazard a guess, he would have said that the young man with the gun had likely first found his way onto an online forum that spouted racist propaganda. From there those ideologies seeped in and took root in his mind, and the echo chamber that was that particular forum provided the means to galvanize the man into action.

_GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY COUNTRY YOU FUCKIN’ JAPS!_

Even now, hours after the event, the words ricocheted within his skull—particularly that one last word. It stung, more than he thought it would, hearing that word directed at him. Though Shinichi was proud of his Japanese heritage, hearing his people demeaned in such a manner felt frankly awful. The detective knew that the etymology of the word dated back to World War II, but with how the two countries amicably interacted with each other, he had thought that those kinds of sentiments would have vanished.

_SHOULDA DUMPED ALL THE FUCKIN’ BOMBS ON YOU!_

His stomach had dropped out at the second sentence screamed at them, and he felt heartsick recalling the words. Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been bad enough; over a hundred-thousand people had died from the detonations and the residual radiation. Shinichi could not even begin to imagine what Tokyo would have looked like had the Americans dropped an atomic bomb there. No doubt he would not even be alive today, considering Shinichi could trace both of his family trees back to the Edo era—and his ancestors had all lived in Tokyo, or Edo, as it was called at the time.

Atomic bombs. Weapons of mass destruction. Firearms.

He thought about the reports both from the police and in the media, of how the man had been able to purchase the M16 through completely legal channels, and wondered why America had virtually no control over access to firearms. Japanese law required that should a person wish to own a gun, they had to jump through a number of hoops in order to even qualify for the opportunity to own one. Shinichi himself carried a firearm in Japan, one issued by the TMPD and one that he had to get re-tested for frequently.

“Kuroba?”

Shinichi’s head snapped up upon hearing KID’s civilian surname. “Here,” he replied in English to the doctor who had stepped out of the still-swinging double doors. He stood up, wincing at the ache in his lower back before turning and gently shaking Aoko on the shoulder. “Kuroba-san,” he murmured, “the doctor has news.”

Aoko’s eyes fluttered open blearily before suddenly popping open in anxiety. She straightened up so quickly that it woke Ran up, and Shinichi wordlessly pointed to the waiting doctor. The woman nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to reach the surgeon. “Yes?” she said breathlessly in Japanese, having temporarily forgotten that she was now in an English-speaking country.

“You are Kaito Kuroba’s wife?” she asked, seeking confirmation, and though he knew this was how English-speaking countries gave their names, hearing KID’s name spoken with given name first still threw Shinichi for a loop. At Aoko’s nod, she continued with a tired smile and held out her hand, which Aoko shook. “I’m Dr. Mimi Tomlinson. I operated on your husband. Mr. Kuroba’s surgery went well, and he is being wheeled into SICU as we speak.”

Shinichi placed a gentle hand on Aoko’s shoulder as she sagged in relief and began to quietly weep. Ran carefully swept the sobbing woman into a hug. “Thank you for all your hard work. May we visit him?” he asked in Aoko’s stead.

Dr. Tomlinson nodded and pointed to a nurses’ station down the hall. “Ask one of the nurses and they’ll direct you to Mr. Kuroba’s room.”

Both Shinichi and Ran thanked her once more before they herded Aoko to the nurses’ station. They were led to one of the many rooms, and the couple waited outside while Aoko went in with the nurse—family only for the time being.

Ran leaned her against him and rested her head on his shoulder. “I hope he recovers quickly,” she said quietly, and Shinichi hummed in agreement. “I’ve been in her shoes enough times to know what it’s like.”

“I didn’t expect him to be one of the victims,” Shinichi admitted with a frown. “KID’s squeezed himself out of so many dangerous situations that it just… doesn’t make _sense_ that he’d be one of the random unlucky people to take a bullet.” He ruminated a bit more before adding wryly, “I guess this one time my bad luck cancelled out his good luck.”

Ran chuckled. “Shinichi,” she said with fond, teasing exasperation in her voice, “only you would have the luck to attract crazy gunmen.”

Before he could reply, the nurse stepped out of Kuroba’s room. “You may see him,” she said, “but please do not disturb him.” The couple nodded solemnly and entered the small room.

Aoko was seated on a chair that had been scooted as close to the bed as possible, holding a hand that was not stuck with a needle nor clipped on the finger to the vital signs monitor. KID—Kuroba Kaito—lay on the bed with eyes closed, endotracheal tube taped to his mouth, and butterfly bandages stripping across the wound on his forehead. Two bags—blood and normal saline solution—fed into the needle inserted and taped to the top of his hand, and Shinichi noted the additional bag of liquid antibiotics being dripped and mixed into the blood. The intermittent compression sleeves that Shinichi knew were wrapped around Kuroba’s calves hissed periodically in the quiet of the room alongside the steady, reassuring beep that echoed the magician’s heartbeat.

Kuroba himself was swathed in the hospital’s light blue gown and tucked under tan blankets and white sheets. While Shinichi was used to seeing him wearing white and blue as Kaitou KID, there had always been a vibrancy about him that made the very air around the phantom thief feel _alive_. To see him so still and so pale was like a punch in the gut to the detective. He quietly approached the side of the bed not occupied by Aoko and gently stroked the skin next to the taped needle on his hand. “Get well soon, KID,” he murmured.

A sharp gasp drew his attention, and he looked up to find Aoko eyeing him with barely concealed terror. Too late he realized his mistake, and he quickly backed away from the bed, hands open and out to show he meant no harm as he said, “I’m not going to do anything to him.”

Aoko stared at him, her bloodshot, puffy eyes assessing him as her fingers tightened on Kuroba’s limp hand.

“I’ve known his identity for years, Kuroba-san,” he said, “but I have never felt the inclination to arrest him.”

“Why?” Aoko asked, suspicion heavy in her voice.

Shinichi glanced at the unconscious magician for a moment before he replied, “Because it’s not sporting, and I had too much fun at his heists to want to actually arrest him.” He tilted his head as he thought for a second before he tacked on, “With him, it’s always been catch and release—except I never was able to do the ‘catching’ part.”

His light scowl was enough to pull a small giggle out of Aoko. He grinned lopsidedly and reiterated, “I’m not here to catch or arrest him, Kuroba-san. I consider him a friend even if he doesn’t with me, and I do not like seeing my friends get hurt.”

With the tension now mostly diffused, Ran sidled up next to Shinichi. “Kuroba-san, Shinichi’s talked to me about KID for many years, and though I’ve sensed annoyance towards him, never once have I sensed any actual hostility.” She looped an arm around her husband’s waist, and he reciprocated with one around her shoulders. “If anything, he’s exasperatedly fond of your husband and if chasing KID makes Shinichi happy, then who am I to complain?”

“Besides,” Shinichi said, “He helped me with taking down the Organization even though he didn’t have to. I owe a lot to him.”

Aoko had gradually calmed down with their individual confessions, and she returned her gaze to her husband’s face. “I’m just glad he’s done with that phase of his life.”

Shinichi said nothing as he and Ran both silently watched the former phantom thief sleep.

\---

It was six hours later when Kuroba awoke. Shinichi had been napping in one of the uncomfortable chairs scattered about Kuroba's room when a soft whimper roused him. He blinked sleepily as he noted both Aoko and Ran snoozing in their own chairs. The faint whimper came again, and realization crashed into the detective. He hurried to the foot of the bed, watching as indigo eyes blinked blearily. Dazed indigo eyes spotted him after several moments of hazy wandering, and Shinichi grinned softly and said, “Hey.”

Kuroba blinked lazily, another quiet whimper escaping him. Shinichi woke Aoko first before leaving to find a nurse at the station. When he returned with two nurses, Aoko was clasping Kuroba’s hand with tears in her eyes, and Ran was standing quietly off to the side. The nurses briskly ran through a checklist of recording Kuroba’s vitals, saying that Dr. Tomlinson was on her way.

Shinichi caught his wife’s gaze, and with a head tilt, gestured that they leave the room. The pair of them wandered into the hospital’s cafeteria, Shinichi settling with a cup of drip coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich; Ran had a bottle of water and a tuna salad sandwich. Neither of them was particularly hungry, but knew they needed to eat—and so they did. When they were done, Shinichi disposed of their trash and purchased a turkey and swiss sandwich and a bottle of water for Aoko.

They returned to Kuroba’s room. The doctor and nurses were gone, and Aoko was quietly talking to determinedly attentive but exhausted KID.

“Kuroba-san,” Ran said, and offered the food and drink, “You should eat something.”

Aoko stared at the food, then Ran, then the food again before she sighed and accepted the sandwich and water. “You’d nag at me if I refused again, wouldn’t you?”

Ran grinned and replied, “Yup!”

To which Shinichi snickered at, having been on the receiving end of Ran’s badgering too many times to count. While Aoko ate and Ran kept her company, Shinichi settled in the chair Aoko had abandoned in order to eat on the little guest table. Kuroba watched him with weary, drugged eyes. “Hi, Kuroba-san,” he greeted, and Kuroba merely blinked at him. “I’m glad to see you awake,” he said with a small smile. “I—” Here his voice failed, his natural inclination to hide his emotions battling with his desire to communicate to the man before him that he would have been devastated if the surgery had gone badly.

Kuroba whined quietly past the object taped into his mouth, a hand shakily rising from the blanket towards him. Shinichi carefully caught the man’s hand in his own, and Kuroba weakly clasped it in what Shinichi realized was his wordless attempt to thank him.

Shinichi gently squeezed back in reply, murmuring, “You don’t have to thank me for anything, KID.”

Indigo eyes widened for a moment and a flash of panic danced through them as the beeping from his vitals monitor spiked in frequency.

“Oh gods, calm down! I’m not going to do anything!” Shinichi yelped, releasing Kuroba’s hand as though he had been burned.

Kuroba’s heartrate slowed, and, exhausted by the fleeting jolt of adrenaline, quickly dropped off into slumber.

Shinichi sighed raggedly, for the moment pointedly ignoring the two stares coming his way from the ladies. He ruffled his hair and slumped in the chair. _I supposed that could have gone better had I watched my mouth._ He closed his eyes. _Cat’s out of the bag now, so there’s that, at least._

\---

Shinichi and Ran ended up staying with the Kurobas for as long as their vacation had been planned. With the knowledge of hospital bills looming in the Kuroba’s near future, the detective took it upon himself to pay for and upgrade the couple’s delayed flight back to Japan. Kuroba Chikage and Nakamori Ginzo had arrived the day after the surgery, the pair of them fluttering about the prone ex-KID.

Ran and Aoko had ended up trading numbers, and it had only been after excessive amounts of harassment from Ran that Aoko had allowed Shinichi to change the date of their return flight to Japan. The upgrade to first class was entirely Shinichi’s doing. The detective wanted Kuroba to travel with as little pain and discomfort as possible.

Now back in Tokyo, Shinichi had returned to his homicide killer hunting, and Ran to her courtroom proceedings. Shinichi was in the middle of typing up a postmortem report when his phone rang. He snatched up the receiver without looking away from his computer screen as he bit out a terse, “Kudou speaking.”

_“Kudou-kun,”_ the receptionist in the lobby said, _“You have a visitor.”_

Shinichi stifled a sigh as he answered, “I’ll be down shortly.” Locking his computer, he ambled towards the elevators. A short trip down later, and Shinichi approached the reception desk. A lean figure was leaning against the lip of the desk, and the detective froze as Kuroba Kaito’s eyes met his.

A grin quirked the magician’s lips as he greeted, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Shinichi said as he finally collected enough motor skills to walk forwards. He gave the man a once over. “You look much better.”

Kuroba chuckled. “I feel better,” he said, then added, “I never thanked you for saving my life.”

Shinichi shook his head and demurred, “I was only doing what I felt was the right thing to do.” Noticing the slight pallor of the other man, the detective suggested, "Why don’t we sit down on the bench to chat?”

The former thief agreed, and they slowly made their way to the seats. The short bit of exercise had Kuroba winded by the time they sat down. Shinichi patiently waited as the other man caught his breath. “Tomlinson-sensei was briefed by the paramedics that took me to the hospital. Said that without you and Kudou-san pressing against my wounds, I would have bled out before they arrived—though I apparently went into cardiac arrest once during the ride to the hospital.”

A shudder swept down the detective’s spine at the realization of just how _close_ Kuroba had been to dying, and the chill was chased away by warm relief that he was still alive. “I’m honestly glad you made it,” he said, his own lips curling in a smile.

Kuroba huffed quietly. “Never formally introduced myself. Kuroba Kaito,” he said with a nod of his head.

“Kudou Shinichi,” he answered with a nod of his own.

“How long have you known?”

There was no need to specify exactly what, for Shinichi knew precisely what Kuroba was asking about. “I figured it out about three years before you retired.”

Kuroba blinked. “And you didn’t do anything with that information?”

Shinichi chuckled. “That would have been very unsporting of me. Not to mention that you’ve kept a few secrets of mine,” he replied with a shrug.

The magician stared at him for a long moment before he leaned in to give Shinichi a somewhat awkward, one-sided hug. _”Thank you,”_ Kuroba whispered into the detective’s ear, and Shinichi could hear the multiple layers of gratitude for a number of different things in his words.

“You’re welcome,” he replied as Kuroba released him and sat back. He eyed the other man for a moment before asking, “Would you and your wife like to come over to our house to eat?” Kuroba blinked, caught off guard as Shinichi elaborated, “Ran makes a delicious tonkatsu curry rice that I highly recommend.”

Kuroba’s tentative but bright smile was all the answer Shinichi needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: While I’m no fanatical jingoist, it still saddens me deeply to see my home country being torn apart from the inside—hence the reason this fic was written. My apologies if this fic disturbed or offended anyone, but I needed to get this one off my chest—and in that regard, I am completely unapologetic. Mental illness is something that I’ve battled with, and it can be debilitating at times. Shinichi, within the context of this story, is unfamiliar with the US Constitution and its amendments—one of which states that all American citizens have the right to bear arms. I did not consult my doctor sister about surgical procedure and post-op care, so… yeah. Lying a shock patient on their left side is done to help them breathe easier (the right lung has a larger capacity than the left due to the location of the heart) as well as to keep the patient from suffocating should their tongue fall back into their throat or should they vomit. _An An_ is a women’s magazine published in Tokyo geared towards helping women develop their self-identity. I have no idea what Japanese law states with regards to criminals with mental illnesses. Gun laws in Japan mandate an all-day class session and a written exam with a minimum passing score of 95%, followed by a rigorous mental health screening and an invasive background check. Gun owners are required to retest every three years thereafter. Only shotguns and air rifles are permitted; handguns are considered illegal. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> \---
> 
> Completed: 25.08.2019


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